


A Walk in the Woods

by wheel_pen



Series: Darkwood Eastport [20]
Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Magic, Polygamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Eastport. In the Valley before their marriage, Cal and Gillian take a supervised stroll and discuss the future. Cal discovers something very important, and painful, about Gillian’s past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walk in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe. I’ve given a lot of thought to the Darkwood culture, so if something seems confusing, feel free to ask. I hope you enjoy!

It was somewhat of a cliché, but also true: People who had never been out of the Valley often didn’t appreciate it, at least not as much as those who had seen the outside world. Gillian had grown up outside the Valley, in a place she described as “heart-breakingly beautiful, and heart-breakingly poor,” and Cal had traveled quite extensively in the last few years. So while many people huddled in their rooms, pretending they were cold and complaining about the snow hindering their lives, Gillian and Cal just put on their jackets and took a walk through the silent woods. Winter only lasted a month here and with full sun and little wind it wasn’t even cold, really. Far more pleasant than many of the winters the two of them had experienced elsewhere.

This topic took up a good five minutes of conversation. Normally Cal disdained such banal subjects as the weather—dull, inoffensive time-wasters from people who really didn’t want to be talking at all—but he was beginning to believe that he could listen to Gillian talk about _anything_. Many, many people in the world were simplistic—Cal could size them up almost instantly, from one conversation. A fair number of people were complicated, though—it wasn’t really a rare trait. But most complicated people were also messy and chaotic, driven by conflicting impulses and self-delusion—as tangled as a knotted ball of string with nothing at the center, and about as interesting. Which was to say, not very.

Gillian, though—she was elegant, intricate, like a fine pastry with every layer a different flavor, or one of the lacquered puzzle boxes Cal had seen in China with every panel unfolding to reveal yet another delicate, hand-carved panel behind it. In a sense she was easy to read, because she didn’t posture like other people did; but every time Cal though he had discovered something fundamental about her, he realized there was yet another layer, angle, facet.

He thought he could study her forever. And if that wasn’t love, he didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Which was always a possibility.

Right now it was her shoes that were driving him mental. Chocolate-brown knee-high boots, with four-inch stiletto heels. In the first place, they looked d—n good on her, curving up the back of her calves like they had been custom-made for her. Well, they _had_ been custom-made, but he’d guessed on the fit as she obviously couldn’t come to Milan and be measured for them personally. He thought he’d done a superlative job at estimating, considering he had only fleeting visual inspections to work with.

But aside from the aesthetic distraction they presented, he devoted considerable mental resources to determining _why_ she was wearing them. They were a gift from him, and she was seeing him today; so using his gift would signify her affection and approval of him. But the boots were particularly ill-suited to walking outside in the snow, and though Gillian liked to be fashionable in a classic sort of way, she also had a practical side. Plus it wasn’t fashionable to stumble when your four-inch stiletto heel pierced the soft ground like a dagger. Perhaps the emotional connection to the gift overwhelmed the practical concerns—Gillian could be sentimental sometimes. But a savvy footwear fancier like her would also realize that the boots, the _gift_ , could be ruined by the snow and mud they trudged through… Would living in the Valley for two years make her faith in the servants’ repair abilities stronger—because it seemed so miraculous compared to what she was used to—or weaker—because she was used to living without it?

“You’re staring at my feet again,” she pointed out, pleasantly.

“Why are you wearing those boots?” he blurted, unable to untangle the question. There was something about her that made him tip his hand, say what he was trying to hide, far more often than he was comfortable with. Another source of intrigue.

She smiled at him. “I like them.” And somehow that simple statement was absolutely true, yet told him nothing. And yet again, was satisfying to him.

She stumbled again and he reached out a hand to steady her, lingering on her arm a bit longer than was strictly necessary. She smiled again, not uncomfortable, but glanced back at the servant who followed them—the servant who was watching them _very_ closely at the moment. Cal let his hand drop away, back down to his side, and the servant relaxed. He had to be careful—there were so many legal grey areas here, one wrong move on his part could get him banished until she was of age. Or worse. It required the kind of control Cal didn’t have much trouble exercising—until now, of course.

“Would you ever want to live outside the Valley?” he asked her. The premarital education classes every Darkwood youth took suggested talking about plans for the future with a potential spouse.

She thought it over before answering, her expression settling on a multi-dimensional ‘yes but.’ “I’d like to travel a little,” Gillian decided. “ _Safe_ places.” She had had enough of risk in her life, he saw. “But I also want to settle somewhere, and have a real home.” Her previous living situation had not met her definition of ‘a real home.’ Her past was sketchy to him, but most outsiders who came to the Valley came from bad circumstances—poverty, violence, disease, despair. He’d worked with enough people like that, certainly. “The Valley is very nice. Very safe.” The word ‘safe’ used twice in a row. Even after two years she wanted protection from her previous life. But, a certain hesitancy in her tone—it indicated she understood life in the Valley had its limitations. Someday—when she felt safe enough—she would be willing to break through them.

“You could come traveling with me,” he offered. “I’m due back in school in Stockholm. I would take care of you.” Where did tripe like that even _come_ from, he wondered as soon as he’d said it. That ‘plan’—and he used the term loosely—was as good as impossible, and he was not normally given to fantastical daydreams or meaningless romantic platitudes. No, not meaningless—he meant them whole-heartedly. They were just meaningless to reality.

“I would like to go to Stockholm with you someday,” she replied. “Do you think I could go to school there?”

“To study psychology?” She was fascinated whenever he talked about what he’d learned. “Sure, if you finish your work here first.” Living in heart-breaking poverty had not left time for proper schooling.

There was determination in her nod of agreement. “I would like to learn how to help people.”

“Like you’ve been helped? S—t. Sorry.” Sometimes these things just slipped out.

Her look meant she wasn’t deeply angry, but she _did_ plan to retaliate. “I would like to learn how to help people, _not_ just how to take them apart.”

“I help people,” he protested. “Sometimes they _need_ to be taken apart, so they can be put back together properly.” She didn’t so much acknowledge his point as set it aside. They’d talked about this before—she didn’t agree with him, but didn’t have the necessary training to explain why, so he found the debate unfairly one-sided at the moment. He went back to a more pleasant topic. “We could get married”—happy—“and you could come to Stockholm with me”—happy—“and you could go to school”—happy—“and somewhere in there we’ll work in having kids”—wow, _that_ set off alarms. “Don’t you want to have kids?” It was kind of a fundamental point.

“Yes,” she told him. Which he could see was true.

“But the idea makes you—anxious?” he probed. Well, now she was showing signs of irritation, but that was directed at him, not the original question. “No, not anxious,” he corrected, replaying her expression in his mind. “Sad.” She tried to turn away, but that in itself was answer enough. “Why would the idea of having children make you sad?”

“Cal,” she warned.

“Well, it’s a fair question.” They had stopped walking momentarily and she started again, faster and more tense. She was running away from him, and the question. Which meant the question was not only fair, but important. He followed her. “You want children, but you think you can’t have any,” he proposed. He didn’t stop to quantify her reaction, he merely internalized it and went on. “No. Ironic. Just the opposite. You _do_ know you can have children.” Of course. “You’ve had a child before.”

She stopped on the path and faced him. Backing off now would be appreciated, her entire body said. Her entire body, except for her feet, which had stopping moving, and positioned her for his examination.

Her feet had a mind of their own. No wonder she had so many shoes.

His mind raced through the scenarios he’d encountered in his work and studies. Ideally everyone in the Valley was supposed to be a virgin until marriage, but those who were raised outside its borders couldn’t be held to the same standard, judged for being desperate or victims of assault, for having different expectations of how their lives would turn out.

“You haven’t been married before,” he decided. She would’ve reacted to his previous comments about marriage. “You didn’t bring a child here with you.” Obviously. “And you couldn’t have left it behind.” The Valley would never have allowed her in if she’d abandoned her child.

Besides, this was Gillian. She would never do that. He was certain of that.

“You would’ve been awfully young when it was born,” he noted. Her body was turned to head down the path, but her feet were rooted in place. The boots were worth every ounce of trouble he’d gone to, if they held her still now. “Did your baby die? No. Someone took your baby away from you. Kidnapping? No. Punishment? For your own good, or its own good.” Common practice in many parts of the world, especially with young, unmarried mothers. Whether it was deplorable or not depended on the specific circumstances.

Gillian brushed hastily at a tear that slid down her face. Cal suddenly found the common practice deplorable in her specific circumstances.

He still had one more question, though. “Were you still with the father? That’s interesting,” he added, intrigued by her response.

“Cal!”

He snapped out of his clinical analysis mode and realized the woman he loved was standing in front of him crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he insisted, genuinely angry at himself. Though he couldn’t deny part of him was glad to know, and wanted to know more. The better part pulled her into his arms and rubbed her back and smoothed her hair, sending the clinical part off to find a legal loophole that would justify the embrace. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just can’t turn it off.” He didn’t know what else to say, because there were a dozen good reasons why he needed to know about this, but not one that justified asking her.

Amazingly her body language said she wasn’t angry at him. Maybe she was even relieved that he knew. Though he clearly didn’t know _everything_. Yet. Still, a verbal response would be very reassuring right now, because somehow her tears rattled his confidence in his ability to read her. “Gilly?”

“Her name was Fiona,” she answered after a moment, and a new round of tears started. But they were more about old wounds that ran deep, the kind she might cry by herself in bed late at night, rather than the kind he’d drawn by opening the wound afresh.

“It’s okay, Gilly, it’s okay,” Cal told her, and he hoped he was telling the truth.


End file.
